


Bad Days Better

by Avalon1632



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: #NoTalkieBeforeCoffee, Doodling on Subway Art, F/F, Goddamn Mondays, Just Based on A Song, Not really a songfic, Songfic, Things sort of happen?, Victoria is Lonely, also, had a bad day, max is sad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-04-06 17:17:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14061651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avalon1632/pseuds/Avalon1632
Summary: Some days are just plain crappy. But sometimes, a random act of positivity can make them better. Inspired by the music video for Bad Day by Daniel Powter.





	1. Needed the Most

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter I: Needed the Most - Monday  
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
> AN:  
> Hey there, Fan-fic-folks!
> 
> Not sure I like this chapter. I was trying to write a Victoria different from the ones in Empire and Blackwell Job; one with a slightly... colder and more isolated, yet more mature feel, I suppose. Not sure it came off as I intended. Victoria's voice is a little harder to make unique than Chloe and Max's are. 
> 
> Anyway, I have a question about where y'all would like me to take this story. It's definitely gonna be Chasefield, but I'm not sure whether to turn it into a kid-fic or just keep them both as single-bachelorette types. Up to y'all. Oh, and any suggestions for alternate titles for this story. I'm hella unsatisfied with the one I have, but I can't think of anything better. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please review.  
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a particularly idyllic morning in Seattle that day, though that wasn't really saying much. Idyllic for Seattle just meant not raining. Light fluttered gracefully through my bedroom window, a symphony of car horns and metro screeches serenading my ears, accompanied by the pungent aroma of spices and arguing drifting up from the Indian family downstairs. 

I sigh, rolling my eyes under my sleep mask as I try bury my face back into sleep. I feel myself drifting off once again when...

BLARP BLARP BLARP

"Jesus fucking shit-ass goddamn motherfuck alarm!" I rolled over in bed, fumbling for the damn thing so I could throw it at a wall, or maybe out the window of my apartment, anything just to make that fucking supersonic blarping die. "Let's see who's still blarping after a six story fall." I muttered vindictively. The alarm deserved the tone. 

When my hand finally finds the off switch and the room falls back into blissful morning quiet, I let out a deep breath. My alarm has kept up its survival streak and lived to annoy the hell out of me another day. 

Now. Let's do this thing. 

Despite my utter distaste for Mondays, one shared by all sensible people, I force myself to rise out of bed and up onto my feet and the hardwood flooring. I hiss when my warm feet touch the cool floor and think, as I do every morning, how much of a pity it is that a carpet wouldn't go with the walls in here. It'd be far easier on my poor feet. 

Still, a Chase endures. I walk across and take a seat in front of my vanity, picking up the pearl-handled hairbrush and running it through my fucking rats-nest morning hair, taming it until it appears at least somewhat acceptable for polite company. Before coffee, that was the best I could manage. 

Speaking of coffee... 

I stumble gracefully into the kitchen, flicking the switch on the Keurig and watching the waiting cup fill with the glorious, delicious nectar of the gods. Caffeine in the form of my triple-roasted Kopi Luwak was the one indulgence I allowed myself at Breakfast, contenting myself with only an egg white and two slices of low-fat buttered toast to eat. 

I take them over to the small windowed-nook in my kitchen, where I'd set up a small table and a single chair, depositing my food and coffee on the table and daintily flopping down onto the seat. 

My mind wanders as I eat, my hands and mouth going on through my meal without me and kindly letting my brain mull around in old, depressing memories. Oh, and the fact that I'm eating breakfast alone for the 718th time. Thanks, Hands.

I sigh, smiling sadly at the pictures tacked up on the wall at the other side of the table. There was one with Tay and I at the beach, a couple with me, her, and Nate back at school, and three Vortex group shots of us chilling after a party. I hadn't seen any of them since I moved out here.

God, I miss those assholes. 

Skype just wasn't the same. Tay tried, she really did, but we were both way too busy to keep up with each other. And Time Zones were still a thing. Jesus, I really hated that they were. Even a lame three hour difference made it hard to line our schedules up. When she got home, I was still at work, and by the time I got home six hours after her I was too exhausted to operate my coffee machine, never mind a laptop.

I... I couldn't even remember the last conversation I'd had with my best friend. How sad is that? 

Ugh. Without really thinking about it, I let my head drift gently backwards until it leans (un)comfortably against the other wall of my little breakfast nook, thunking it a couple times in a well-practised motion to dislodge the melancholy.

As my head empties, I realise my plate and mug have emptied too. With a sigh, I pick up both and glide over to the sink, depositing both into it, on top of the perpetually wobbling pile already there. I mutter a curse. I'm running out of plates. Again.

Damnit. 

I catch sight of the clock, realising I'm also running out of time. I dash back into my room to get ready. Jesus, could this day get any worse?

\--

Apparently it could. 

Ugh. Why do all these idiots always have to be around here, breathing on me with their germs and poor taste. Every day in this fucking coffeeshop is like a minefield of poor hygiene and even fucking poorer fashion choices. Like, Jesus, who wears a purple top with neon green pants? I feel like I'm going to catch something just standing in this queue. Like flu. Or worse, Bad Taste. (AN2)

"Max? Max?" 

I roll my eyes when the barista yells the name for the fifth time. What kind of moron swans off halfway through their drink being made? Or, like, doesn't know their own name? Is it just a thing for people named Max? Jesus, that little hipster was just as absentminded as whoever this fucker is. 

I mull it over for a second, trying to remember what the hell happened to her. She moved... somewhere, after graduation. New York, maybe? 

After the eighth yell, I walk over and slap my hand, along with ten dollars, down on the counter. "Sorry. I'm Max. I was in the bathroom. Keep the change as an apology." 

The barista rolls his eyes, but hands me the drink and takes the cash. I quickly leave the coffeeshop, immediately dismissing the glares of the tasteless morons in line. What did they matter? They couldn't even find the time to dress themselves properly! 

I take a left outside and head along the street towards the nearest subway stop. Along the way, I take a sip of my... gleh. Why is this cold? What the fuck even is this? I take a look at the side. 

What the fuck is a frappucino? What kind of monster drinks cold coffee? Ugh. Deviants. 

I toss it in the first trashcan I walk past.

Fuck it. I'll just have to get some of that crappy filter coffee from the breakroom. 

\--

I scuttle into my cubicle, mug in hand, about four minutes late. Damn that asshole. Who the hell does he think he is, trying to chat me up in the breakroom? Before coffee?! 

He's lucky I didn't castrate him. 

Still. Back in my cubicle now, my sanctum sanctorum. Now I can get to work. 

Or, well. I could try. 

Barely twenty seconds after I sit down, a gruff voice yells out "Chance!" from my cubicle doorway at least thirty decibels louder than necessary. I spin my chair to see my idiot boss, Dr Pointy Hair, holding several papers and fixing me with his most fearsome glare. It was more tigger than tiger, but the man had the power to fire me whenever he liked, so... I just kept the nicknames inside my head.

"Chance," he said again, still incapable of learning any name other than his own (which was actually Pontier, not Pointy Hair, but the man had two cornetto-cones of hair sticking back from each temple. That, along with his time-strewn face and relentless balding made for an interesting picture to sit atop his always surprisingly well-tailored suit. I'd long since exhausted my eyeroll capacity for this man, so I let it slide. Plus, the suit gave him a little leeway.) "Where's the latest draft portfolio for the Ed account? I've a meeting with them in three minutes and I-" 

I quickly spin back, deftly dropping my coffeecup onto my desk, sweeping up the file as I go, and handing it to Pointy Hair without a pause and before he finishes his sentence. "Here, Sir." 

"And the-" 

"The projections are in the back," I ease open the file and tap one of the dividers "under projections." 

He blinks for a second, then grins. "Good work, Chance." He spins around, somehow faster than my chair, and heads off down the corridor. "I'll let you know how the meeting goes!"

He never did. Luckily, his assistant Summer was kind of a blabbermouth. She gave me the full minutes, and Pointy Hair was never the wiser. I think he still thought he reported the results back to me. 

I lean back in my chair and take a gulp of my coffee, listening to his idiotic footsteps clack-clacking away. 

Ugh. 

Only... I peer up at the clock... six more hours to go. 

Jesus, I am going to need more coffee. 

\--

I almost snarl when I see the poster of a woman holding coffee, sat on a stupid bench. Jesus Christ. Shine? Fucking seriously? What kind of hippie bullshit is this? I am not going to stare at this positive mindset bullshit every time I travel, no fucking way. 

I rifle through my bag for a second, pull out my sharpie, and get to work. Hmm. Ah, I have it. Something more appropriate for the shitty day we're all having. 

After a few moments of scribbling, I step back to admire my handiwork. A dark, black cloud sits over the coffee-holding woman (bitch probably drank frappucinos and smiled at those idiots on the street trying to blather on about global warming or pandas or whatever) and her terrible clothes are being soaked with rain. 

Fantastic. 

I take another few moments to appreciate the now appropriate poster before heading off to catch my subway tram.

As I step on, I throw a glare at the man-spreading asshole who's trying to take up two damn seats, smirking when his eyes widen and he pulls his legs in. I give him a polite little nod, barely an incline of my head, and sit down next to him. 

I can feel him shaking next to me. 

I smile. 

After another moment to gloat, I pull out my phone and bring up the news app. I'd had a hell of a day. The Anarchists would be good for a laugh. They always were. Those costumed idiots had gone from fuck-up to fuck-up ever since they'd appeared. And... oh look! They'd tried to rob a bank. And failed at it. How do you fail at robbing a bank? Jesus, I bet I could rob a bank.

I smirk. Maybe they should ask the proper criminals for some help. They could teach the Anarchists how to actually commit crimes and in return the Anarchists could... oh, I don't know, they could try teach the other criminals to have a decent fashion sense? Some of these idiots were surprisingly well dressed. 

Oh, shit, that was my stop! 

\--

AN1 - I imagine her saying this like Hermione's line about death and expelling from Harry Potter.


	2. Kicking Up Leaves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter II: Kicking Up Leaves (Max) - Monday  
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
> AN:  
> Hey there, Fan-fic-folks!
> 
> Sorry for the delay. My dumbass self decided it would be great to plan out my fics a little more and, attempting to score even more moron-marks, ended up planning a whole bunch of stuff that was difficult for me to write, ignoring the need to help me 'settle back' into the flow of regular updates. The difficult bit in this one was the second scene, in the coffeeshop. Having never been on either side of this situation, having never understood why people think like that, and planning in a bunch of emotional shit that I wanted to do right by, it was pretty difficult to get something that I was happy with. Frankly, I'm not overly happy with what I have now, but I at least think it's good enough to update. Let me know.
> 
> Also, have y'all seen the announcement for this new game 'set in the life is strange universe'? It's not LiS 2 or anything, but it's a pretty decent sounding thing. Apparently from DONTNOD, and coming on June 26th, and for free. It's called 'The Awesome Adventures of Captain Spirit'. From what I've heard, the company're going for a thematic sequel rather than a direct one: 'Relatable people facing relatable issues... with a twist of the strange'. Although they also say there are some clues to LiS 2's plotline if you're 'clever enough to piece the clues together'. Anyways, if any of you have seen it (go check it out, for those who haven't), what do you think of the announcements and whatnot so far? 
> 
> Also II: Electric Boogaloo, apparently Seattle IRL doesn't have a subway, but Buses wouldn't work for what I want to do with this and the monorail has only two stops so it's kind of useless, so I'm using the light rail thing and referring to it as a tram because I'm British and we call those things trams and I can't find anything to say what Seattle-ites call 'em. If you happen to be from Seattle and can work out what the hell I'm talking about, do feel free to correct me. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please review.
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Come on, Lazybones. Get up already."

I groan and roll over so I can squish the pillow down on my head. "Ugh. No."

There's a laugh, high and delighted, before the voice speaks again. "Come on, dude. You're going to be late."

"N- Im n-t." My words get muffled by the pillow, and the voice laughs again. 

"Dude! I know you're miserable right now, but-" A hand suddenly grabs my shoulder, nails digging into the flesh there, and rolls me over. My eyes flash open and I stare up into the grinning, manic face of my best friend. "but how the fuck do you think I feel?"

My mouth opens and closes mutely, and I watch in horror as blood starts to pool from her chest, and the meat of the right side of her face begins to slough off of her skull. "I'm dead, Max. Because of you. Now..." 

She leans in again, long skeletal fingers pressing even firmer into my skin as she pulls my head up flush to hers. "Wake. Up!"

I jolt awake, sitting bolt upright in the bed just seconds before my alarm starts to blare. I let it bleep away, running a hand through my hair and trying my best to get air to my lungs. My eyes flicker around the tiny craphole room, flitting from item to item with the ease of long practice. Engage the senses, observe the surroundings, ground the mind. 

Five things.

The Microwave in the little kitchenette on the far wall. Ugly thing. It looked the monolith from 2001, if it had been designed by a kitsch fetishist. 

The steamer trunk pushed against the wall to my right. It was big enough to hold everything I owned, just in case. Heh. In 'case'.

A desk in the middle of the room. It was covered in mugs and plates from meals discarded when I was too busy working. 

The crappy floral wallpaper, bare of any extra decoration or pictures. It was there when I moved in, and it'd probably be there long after I moved out.

Chl... my camera. On the same shelf as always. 

When my breathing finally slows to a manageable rate, I feel my muscles start to relax, and I ruthlessly blot out the memory as best I can. Now, I'm going to be late if I don't get moving.

Come on, Lazybones. Get up already. 

I pull myself out of bed and head to the kitchen to make breakfast. 

\--

I stumble into the coffeeshop, blinking my eyes as I stare blearily up at the orders menu. I have no idea why I'm bothering, I never order anything different. I guess I just like to know the option is there. The mellow acoustic vibes playlist in my ears keeps my heartbeat down so the constant nudging and shuffling of people around me doesn't send me spiralling into another panic attack. 

I can't wait to get back to my office. 

When I finally, after what felt like an eternity, made it to the front of line, I rattle off my order without making eye contact and hand over the money. It might sound rude, but I'd been coming here since I first moved so the baristas were used to my particular brand of shy misanthropy. "Mocha Frappucino, please."

The barista nods and the line shuffles on again. It's fine, until some douchecanoe behind me shuffles too damn close and it takes everything in me not to flail about in panic. 

Dog. 

Then, the fucker does it again. I turn round to find him giving me an appreciative glance over. He reaches up suddenly, and knocks my headphones off. Lucky for him that they just land around my neck. If they'd've broken, I'd have made an homage to that scene of Rorschach in the prison cafeteria with that pot of boiling coffee and his smug fucking face.

I'm not locked in here with him. He's locked in here with me!

Okay, so neither of us are locked in anywhere, but...

Shush. 

He leans in, doing that thing guys do when they try make their muscles their most prominent feature, and flashes a smile full to brimming with pearly white confidence. "Hey there. I'd offer to buy you a drink, but you already paid. Guess I'll just ask you to share a table with me instead."

I shake my head. "No thanks, dude."

His grin turns a little, but he keeps trying. "Go on. Just one drink. You'll like me, I promise."

Dog, the arrogance dripped right off his damn words. Honestly, if he'd've stuck to them, I'd probably have been able to handle him. But he had to go and fucking touch me. His hand drops to my shoulder, and a hard grip turns me back towards him. "Come on, baby." Baby? Ew. "You don't wanna share a drink with me?" 

He gestures to himself with his other hand, like I'm supposed to drop down and worship at the temple of his abs, and flashes another pearly-white grin. Never before had I found teeth menacing, but in that moment his perfect, pearly little rows of them looked more like tombstones.

"No. I don't want to share a drink with you." I could feel my heart racing. His hand was still on me, and his words were still in my ear, and there were people all around me - and weren't they all standing too damn close? - and he was saying something in that fucking tone that wonders why I'm not just bowing down and doing what he wants and a car goes past and the lights reflect in the glass of the menu and it all just reminds me of him and there's a flash of dark hair and cold eyes and it's way too fucking much.

Before I knew it, I was rushing out of the line, shoving past people in a blind panic as I dashed for the safety of the bathroom. I scramble inside, locking the door behind me. It takes everything in me not to just sink to the floor in terror. I manage to pull myself to the sink on the right wall, splashing some water on my face in a desperate attempt to ditch this fucking panic attack. 

"Come on, Max. Breathe, damnit." 

Eventually, some-fucking-how, I manage to calm my shit. The bathroom in this place was kinda gross, so my usual 'pick five things' method was... uh... not helpful. I feel exhausted, now it's done. Dog, that fucking asshole has just ruined my day. 

I slink out of the bathroom, ignoring the puzzled stares of the people around me as I head up to the waiting point. After five minutes pass, and I don't see anyone making a Frappucino, I lean over the bar to ask "Did I order a Latte Frappucino?"

The barista, who I think is a new kid, just shrugs. "Last Latte Frap we made just got taken. Sorry, but I'll have to ask you to go to the back of the queue."

Someone took my drink? What the fuck? 

I just stare blankly at the rapidly-becoming-irritated kid before checking my watch. Crap. I don't have time to wait. But, I also paid already and I really, really, really can't afford to waste that much.

But I really can't afford to lose this job.

Crap. Again.

As I rush out the door, I find myself grumbling under my breath. 

Another shitty day... 

\--

Another coworker leaves, stomping loudly past my desk. I flash them an irritated glare that they don't notice, and bear down on the work again. A long, drawn out yawn lets me know it's probably time for another coffee break. I say 'break'. I was just gonna run to the breakroom, grab a pot, then come right back. Dog, I hate being Luke Priestly's fucking Junior. Pretty sure I'm going to collapse if I keep this up, but I need the overtime to afford my crappy apartment in this crappy city and...

I groan, running my hand over my face. Ugh. I blink blearily down at the heap of paperwork I still had to do before I could go home, cursing my boss' obsessive perfectionism ("The work is done when I say it's done, Ms Caulfield, not before"). 

Dog. 

Being the low man on the totem pole sucks. Yeah, I could complain, but it'd just piss him off until he could find an excuse to get rid of me. Perks of low paid, low authority jobs. The underdog may win on TV, but that crap doesn't happen in real life. 

I bash my head lightly against the side of my desk, trying to keep myself awake. 

Yep, I think, pulling myself up and heading straight for the breakroom.

I need some dogdamn coffee.

\--

It's almost midnight by the time I leave. I hit the lift, blinking mutely at the obnoxious mirrors that decorate the outer walls as I try to resist the cheery tune that cycled endlessly through this tiny metal box. 

My hand goes back up to my face, and I shiver a little when the tufts of my fringe tickle against the tips of my fingers. I pull my hand away and clasp it with my other when I realise it's shaking. Come on, Max. Deep breaths. 

In. Out. In. Out. In. 

Out.

The lift doors slide open and I stumble out into the lobby. It's just as devoid of life down here as it is upstairs. Even the night security shift are off in a backroom somewhere, staring at tiny screens. They didn't used to be, but the Anarchists took care of that, I guess. Far safer to have security in the middle of the building these days.

My mind starts to clear as the cold night air hits me. Wowzers. Nothing more sobering than a good breeze. It sends my hair fluttering as I hurry away from the looming tower I spent my days toiling inside and straight towards the nearest station. Just two blocks and eight stops and I'll be home.

I barely registered the rain. 

\--

I arrived in the station a few minutes early, so I squirreled my way close-ish to the edge and started to wait. No sense being impatient. It'd get here when it gets here, as Mom always used to say. The routine reassured me, I think. Not that the trams ran on any kind of timetable, but... leave work, get on the tram, get off, go home, cook, sleep. It was... comforting. Normal. 

I started looking around as I mulled it over. Mostly familiar sights, this station didn't change much. There was the usual hobo panhandling in the corner, very illegally. I nod to him when our eyes meet, and he shakes his cup with a grin. I roll my eyes, patting myself down, and shrug self-consciously. He chuckles, and flips me off. 

Good 'ole Gary. 

My eyes flick past him, over the signs on the station walls, over the people, the faces - well, what few of them there were, anyway (people, not faces. it'd be weird to have lots of people with only few faces) - and right over to...

Wowzers. 

There were a couple of spaces, near the entrance to the station, where advertisers could put their pictures of various smiling people holding up their products. Or, well. That was what was usually there, so visible that it was basically invisible in its normality. Today, though, there was a simple picture; a woman, sat smiling on one of the benches in the station, and a caption that said simply 'shine'. 

Or that was what it originally was. Someone had drawn a raincloud over the woman, giving the image a perfect irony I very much appreciated. The lines were thick, dark, and jagged. Definitely drawn in anger. Clearly not a fan of Bob Ross, no sir. No happy little people here. (AN2)

Except me.

Not that I'm little.

I'm one inch taller than the average height of women in America, dogdamnit. (AN1)

Not short.

While I was rambling to myself, I find I'm walking over to the sign. Something about it rankles me. I think it's the angry lines, but I don't know. Whoever did this had to have been having a really bad day to be angry enough to bother to draw on a sign and I just... ah. I don't know. I rummage around in my bag, trying to find my... aha!

I pull out the red board marker with a cheery... cheer, blushing slightly when a couple of my fellow travellers look over. I mouth an apology and pull the cap off. Now, what to draw... 

I grin, and put pen to plastic. 

When I finish, I take a step back, and admire my work. That'll do nicely.

Oh shoot, that's my tram!

\--

AN1 - Apparently Max is 5 feet and 5 inches. According to the CDC (why those peeps are looking into average heights, I have no idea), average height for women in the states has stabilised during the last 50 years to around 5 feet and 4 inches. 

AN2 - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gHeqzxnCjgk (Bob Ross VR: The Joy of Tiltbrush - Door Monster)


	3. Walking Under Sunshine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter III: Walking Under Sunshine - Tuesday  
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
> AN:  
> Hey there, Fan-fic-folks!
> 
> Have y'all seen the announcement for this new game 'set in the life is strange universe'? It's not LiS 2 or anything, but it's a pretty decent sounding thing. Apparently from DONTNOD, and coming on June 26th, and for free. It's called 'The Awesome Adventures of Captain Spirit'. From what I've heard, the company're going for a thematic sequel rather than a direct one: 'Relatable people facing relatable issues... with a twist of the strange'. Although they also say there are some clues to LiS 2's plotline if you're 'clever enough to piece the clues together'. Anyways, if any of you have seen it (go check it out, for those who haven't), what do you think of the announcements and whatnot so far? LiS 2 has also apparently been announced for this year (the end of September), so we've got that to look forward to too! This is a hella full year for Life is Strange. :D
> 
> Also, this has no relation to the fic, but Fun. are really fucking awesome playing acoustic. Check 'em out on youtube. There's a bunch more, but Ramen apparently isn't into nicely organised playlists so you may have to search a little. Other recommendations, Murder by Death (they're like Johnny Cash singing Decemberists' lyrics), After the Fire (specifically Der Kommissar, the song from the Atomic Blonde soundtrack), and Wolf Parade (specifically their new album, Cry Cry Cry. You're Dreaming is an INCREDIBLE song.). All of 'em are on Youtube, and they're all awesome.   
> There's not much to talk about for this update. It happened, it's here, I'm not sure if it's good or bad. Whatever it is, it is that thing, so... Eh. Hope you like it, let me know, etc etc. Oh, and let me know if the perspective change mid-chapter is clear enough. I figured the Dog and Wowzers and whatnot suddenly appearing would make it clear enough, but just in case I'd like to know if you didn't get it. Maybe there's something I can do to make it more obvious (suggestions appreciated). 
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please review.
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In my dream, everything was peaceful. I might even go so far as to say it was Idyllic. Birds were tweeting, Taylor was somewhere next to me, Peer Gynt Suite One (AN1) was playing in the background.

I leant back, and I sighed blissfully. 

Ah.

...

...

...

BLARP BLARP BLARP

"Damnit."

I roll over and up into a sitting position, smoothly planting my feet on the floor. A few moments later and I'm clad in my dressing gown and heading over to my vanity to begin my morning routine, enduring the pain of my floors once again. (Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no hardwood flooring).

After having my usual breakfast of toast and an egg white, and my gloriously fabulous coffee (after washing out a mug. I used my last one yesterday), I dress and leave for my godawful piece of shit job. 

\--

I sigh, rubbing a hand over my agonised temple, and mutter darkly. "Another day in cubicle hell." Bloody meetings. 

"What was that?"

I look up into the earnest, self-interested eyes of whichever-the-fuck customer we're meeting with instead of me having my fucking lunch break so he could ramble on about how little he understands fucking any of the two hundred and thirty six things (I may hate my job, but that's no fucking excuse to suck at it.) this project involves. Gah. 

I plaster on an obvious fake smile (he doesn't notice), take a calming sip from my deliciously ebullient coffee, and shrug to the crowd of unnecessary tag-alongs this asshole brought with him. "Nothing. Just reading your proposal." 

He beams. "It's great, isn't it? If we work in a synchronised incremental digital integrated dynamic e-commerce space, we can really bolster our new management processes to create a full diagram of top down change and-"

Yeah. 

My fucking job.

Jesus. 

I smile as he keeps rambling on with irritating business buzzwords, and pointy-hair nods enthusiastically from his chair next to me (He got the executive model. God, I'd kill for those armrests). Ugh. I hate meetings. They're like... perdition. With powerpoint. 

Originally, I tried to remain... professional in these meetings. Then I realised how pointless they were (there's a reason we call it powerpointless) and how I was too low on the promotion ladder to beat back the bullshit, so I stopped bothering. Now I snark and mutter about how much I hate things. 

I spare a quick glance down to my planner, checking what I've to do the rest of the day after this idiot leaves and-

More meetings. Straight away. For the rest of the day.

Good times. 

Ugh.

\--

It's around nine (pm) when I finally get out of the back-t0-back day of meetings. Obviously, I'm fucking exhausted. My limbs feel sluggish and I can barely muster the energy to keep my posture upright.

Still, a Chase endures.

I pull myself straight, striding away from the office tower and toward the nearest tramline. Jesus, I couldn't wait to get home. I almost start to daydream about it, I'm so desperate. Instead, I just sort of... plan it. I'd slink in, slip into my dressing gown, pour a glass of wine, and order from the Thai place on the corner. 

God. 

I'm so distracted, focused on my plans, that it takes me a few moments to notice that something... is different. 

Someone has drawn on my fucking poster! (AN2)

Ugh. It's so tacky and... and upbeat, too. The Shine woman was now clutching an obnoxiously-bright red umbrella as she smiled away under the dark cloud of rain I'd so justly rained down upon her!

Ahem. 

The fire of my righteous anger burns off the ice of my exhaustion, and I quickly rifle through my bag to find my pen. Thus armed, I advance on the godawful poster and, after a moments thought, I begin to draw. 

I model it on my father's car, an old classic Ford sedan, and angle a large puddle-tidal-wave to be about to hit the woman. 

When it's complete, I holster my pen with a grin.

Ah, Schadenfreude. Suddenly everything about my day seems just a little brighter. 

\--

I am in a dream.

It's nothing dramatic. There are no storms, no psychopaths, no death, no murder, no Hell. 

I'm just gently dozing in the back of a car, watching the pretty scenery go by. I never once feel the urge to photograph it, just to stare.

A set of long, thin fingers gently glide across my cheek, and a voice says "Max?"

I blink, my brain still feeling the fuzziness of sleep, and wriggle down into the bed. "Shsh. Slp-ping." I mutter. 

There's a laugh, and the voice leans in again. "Oh, Maaaaax. Time. To. Wake. Up!"

I jolt awake, gasping for air as my heart pounds in my damn ears. 

Ugh.

I hate mornings. Remind me why I get up for them again?

Oh. Yeah.

Work.

Darnit. 

I stumble out of bed and immediately head for the coffee. I needed as much as possible as soon as possible. 

Dogdamn mornings.

\--

Dogdamn reports. Dogdamn paperwork. Whoever invented paperwork needs to be marooned on some island in the sea somewhere so he can't do any more damage to society. 

I start to groan in exasperation, but quickly swallow it as the familiar greying temples of my boss appear in the corridor outside, talking to another older man in a suit more animatedly than I'd ever seen him do before. "-another attack last night. They're a nuisance, but a profitable one. Cossling wants a full spread and-" I keep my head down, and my mouth shut as they pass by and disappear behind me into Priestley's office.

When the door swings closed, I let out a sigh of relief that's quickly doused as those grey temples appear behind me. "Ms Caulfield?"

I choke on the sigh, turning it into a coughing fit that has my chest writhing in frenetic spasms by the end of it. Priestley waits patiently, cold blue eyes glaring at me over the small round spectacles perched on the end of his hawkish nose. "Are you quite finished?"

"Yes sir." I splutter. "What can I do for you?"

"I'll be in a meeting for the next forty five minutes. Ensure that I am not disturbed for anyone less than a Vice President. Understood?"

I nod obediently. "Yes sir. Forty-five minutes. You won't be disturbed, sir."

He gives a sharp nod, then turns and stalks back into his office. The last thing I hear before the doors closed is "I hear Meyer Security is offering to work with the police and-"

I blink. Dogdamn. Meyer Security was the biggest firm in the state. They worked with everyone, from art galleries to the government themselves. Whatever they're talking about must be serious. Good thing for them that I... have absolutely no-one to spread that rumour to.

I sigh. Come on, Max. Stop depressing yourself and get on with it already. If you get this done, he might even let you go home early! 

Pfft. Fat chance.

\--

It's gone eight by the time I leave. 

The cleaners nod to me as we pass each other, and I smile as they board the elevator I just exited. 

A quick walk and a ducked head gets me to the station in no time. I nod to Gary, go through our usual ritual, then take my place at the edge of the platform to wait. My tram should be a few minutes. 

I sling my hands in my pockets and let my eyes wander again, frowning as they come to rest on the same advertisement from yesterday.

The depressive doodler has struck again, apparently.

The poor Shine Lady is now being splashed by a large car. Some kind of expensive, old-looking sedan. I grin at the comically large wave coming off it, towering over the girl like a tsunami. Then, I draw my pen and draw... myself. 

Well. Sort of myself. As close as I could get in red marker. It wasn't half bad, if I do say so myself. I even got the freckles. 

I was holding out my coat to protect the girl from the wave. I hated the long coat I had to wear for the office, just like they'd hated my old hoodie (said it was 'unprofessional dress', the bastards), but it worked pretty well for this doodle. 

When I turn away, I catch a couple looking at my drawing and chuckling. I give them a little nod, and salute with my pen.

A few seconds later, the train arrives and I board. I watch the couple get on from my seat, feeling a pang of... something when I see them sitting together, one girl with her head on the other's shoulder. I couldn't for the life of me tell you what the feeling was, but it was empty and dark. 

Probably loneliness. Not that I really knew what that felt like anymore. That's the thing about awful emotions like that. Sure, it's hard at first. It permeates everything in your life, from waking up through eating and working and talking and living, all the way up to going to sleep. But eventually, it gets easier to carry. Sometimes, this helps you deal with it. Makes the burden lighter, less tightly bound to you, so you can leave it behind and move on. Other times, it just gets smaller, easier to divide up and pack away. You put some sadness in your solitude, some misery in your memories, and some sorrow in... in your nightmares. You learn to live with it, but not live beyond it. 

I sigh, leaning back in my seat and peering out into the night. 

Nearly home now. 

Hruuugh. 

\--  
AN1 - The Peer Gynt Suite No.1 by Edvard Grieg is one of my favourite not-written-by-a-Russian classical pieces ever. It's awesome, although admittedly heavily overused in scenes like this with the whole idyllic and peaceful morning vibe. Probably due to the fact that the first part of this is actually called 'Morning Mood'. Fun fact, I misread that name when I first learnt it and went for years thinking the first part was called 'Morning Wood'. I only found out my mistake when a teacher corrected my crediting of the song in a film I made for secondary (high) school. Anyway. Grieg was awesome. The guy went to a fucking Conservatory (fancy-ass music school) at the age of 15! That's a pretty high achievement. 

AN2 - This whole... cognitive dissonance thing is something I've actually seen someone do. Sort of... claiming their territory, I guess. Like, "I drew on this piece of public property, now it's mine! Don't you fuckers touch my graffiti!" Not so much of a thing in Manchester though. We've got quite a vibrant and open (as open as you can be as a street artist, anyway) street art community here, to the point where we've an entire neighbourhood where a group I forget the name of basically sponsors people to create artwork. Check out the 'Northern Quarter graffiti art' if you're interested. It's pretty damn cool. We look at tags and, instead of just white-washing over it, we paint a picture of David Bowie instead.


	4. Optimistic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter IV: Optimistic (Victoria/Max) - Wednesday  
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
> AN:  
> Hey there, Fan-fic-folks!
> 
>  
> 
> Sorry for the delay on last week's update. Being sick isn't exactly conducive to getting the creative juices flowing. Updated a couple extra things this week though, as an apology for missing last week. Also to try actually get these things moving a little more quickly.
> 
> Also, does anyone know a place where I can find out some more about agender/genderfluid people, or is anyone agender/genderfluid and willing to answer some questions? I have a couple of character ideas for my fics and, since I seem to just be making them cis-het types with an agender nametag, which is pointless, I think actually learning more about the demographic might help get their backstories and experiences and such down. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please review.  
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Come on, Tori. You don't have any new juicy gossip to share?"

Taylor's grin is wicked, and her eyebrows waggle skeezily across her leering face. Even across all the miles between us, even with all the staticky, low-quality jerkiness of Skype, Taylor was still absolutely ridiculous. I roll my eyes. "No, you perv. You know I'm too busy for that crap, and you can just say it, Taylor. You're a big girl now, you don't need the insinuation."

She chuckles. "Well okay then. Are you getting any? Or dating anyone? Have you held hands in the last two years?" She gets slightly more desperate (dismayed) with each shake of my head. "Have you even winked at anyone since you graduated?"

I scoff. "Ew, no. I'm not Mrs Robinson, Tay, I don't wink."

"Well, you should. I worry about you, y'know." 

What? I tilt my head in confusion. "You're worried I'm not getting any? That's..." 

She throws a scowl back to me, rolling her eyes. "No, Tori. I'm worried you're lonely."

Lonely...

"Pfft." 

Jesus, Chase. Put forward a real convincing argument, didn't you? 

Taylor seems even less impressed than I am. "Wow. Thanks for that, Victoria. Totally reassured me that you're not lonely."

"Tay..." I sigh. "Can we talk about something else? Please?" My voice sounds small, pathetic, entirely un-Chase. But it does the job.

Taylor shrugs, pulls a bright smile straight out of her ass, and asks another really, really bad question. "Have you been doing anything with your art? I've been stalking your insta, but you've not posted anything in a while. Keeping the good stuff for a gallery?"

I shake my head. "I haven't had time for that, either. There's not much to take pictures of here, it's just so... bland."

"Oh."

Her face looks heartbroken. I feel like I've kicked a puppy. A really nosy, well-meaning puppy that I'll never do better than for as long as I live. Without my brain noticing, my mouth tries to reassure her with a blurted "I've been getting into drawing."

She tilts her head, frowning in confusion. "Drawing?"

I nod, "Yeah. On a billboard in a tram station."

Her confusion increases dramatically. So dramatically, in fact, she gasps like she's a fucking leading lady. "Victoria Chase, are you getting into... graffiti?"

I tilt my head and drop my voice into a deadpan. "The monkey from Lion King? What the fuck does he have to do with anything?"

Taylor rolls her eyes at my subtle evasion tactic. "Street art, Tori. You're getting into street art." 

I... what? What on earth could've possibly made her think I, Victoria Chase, would stoop to such a-

Oh. 

"No. Not really. Well. Sort of. Um..." 

Taylor leans in, and there's still a ridiculous lechery to her expression, but it's also... curious. "What happened exactly, Tori?"

I sigh, again, and take a second to think. A very un-needed second. This was Taylor. No secrets. So, I pin my eyes to a random point on my wall and tell her the whole sordid story. 

There's a few beats of silence when I'm finished, and I dare a look at her face. Just to see what she thought of my storytelling skills, obviously. 

Her reaction was kind of hilarious. Her entire posture perks up suddenly, like a puppy that was just shown a treat at random, and her face takes on this... dopey, delighted look. Also, it's kind of weird to refer to my best friend as a puppy, repeatedly, too, but it's so appropriate right now. 

I jab a finger at my camera lens and growl warningly "Taylor..." 

She doesn't heed my deterrent, barely sparing the time for a 'hello Victoria's outraged outstretched finger, what gives?' look before plowing right on into... that. 

Emotion.

Ew.

"Aww, but Tori! It's so cute! And smooth, too. You're flirting with art! At least you know that, whoever they are, they're as crazy about art as you. And they're positive, too! You need a positive person in your life, Tori. You know you wrinkle when you get too pessimistic."

I glare at her just in time to prevent the inevitable squee. 

She peers down at her screen for a second, then quietens down a little. I give her a grateful nod. "I just..." She sighs. And aren't we sighing a lot in this conversation? "I just want you to be happy, Tori. This is like a story, or a music video (AN1). That kinda cute doesn't come around often." 

I roll my eyes again. "I don't even know who the other person is. They could be anyone." 

Taylor grins. "I know, right? It's so mysterious." She pauses thoughtfully. "Maybe you could ask?" Before I can interrupt to remind her that the person clearly goes through hours before I do, she adds "On the drawing, I mean. Like, put a question or something on it, and hope they fill the other half in?"

I sigh. Again. "I don't know, Taylor. Maybe."

Taylor seems to accept that answer, as paltry as it might be, and we both go silent. Taylor, because she'd run out of squees to give, even if I wouldn't let her let out any of them, and me because I was just... confused. And heart-warmed. 

"I'm lucky to have you in my life, Taylor," I say, influenced by this uncharacteristic welling up of sappiness. Or possibly angina. Is this angina? Oh god I'm dying.

She just looks at me and chuckles. "Don't you forget it, Tori." 

What? Oh. Emotional stuff. Yeah. 

"Never." 

\--

For once in my working week, I manage to get lunch. Pointy Hair ended up yelling it at me, for some reason. I didn't question it. I just dashed out the door, peacoat-clad, and headed straight for Carlita's van. 

I know, I know. What's the Great Victoria Chase doing eating from a fucking street vendor? If you'd eaten the food from here, you'd eat there as often as you could too. For me, that was about three or four times a year, so I estimated the indulgence was acceptably easy to work off. 

Once my food was ordered, I walk across the large square the vendor had set-up in the corner of to find a place to sit down. I was aiming for clean, but given that this is a public venue I suppose I'll have to lower my standards for a half hour. I daintily settle down on the least bird-shit covered spot, almost at the edge of the lowered display dais around one of the oversized testicular monoliths that some idiot artist had decided looked good scattered randomly around the square, I can find and begin to eat. 

I spare a glance back to the food truck, smirking as I spot the massive crowd. Must be... thirty, maybe forty people. I really dodged a bullet there. 

Before I know it, my meal is gone, and I'm leaning back against the testicle monolith. The cold was biting, but anything was better than being in that damn office. I wouldn't be late back - a Chase is Never Late, after all - but I was going to take full advantage of this opportunity. My eyes began to drift closed, and the sounds of the city wash over me until they were all overwritten by a shriek and a loud squawk. 

I frown, and my eyes shoot open. "What the fuck?"

Something hit me in the face! Something hit ME in the fucking FACE! I reach up with one hand and... nothing there. What..?

The offending object was lying a short way ahead of me. 

A fucking wrapper. 

Someone threw a fucking wrapper at me! 

I immediately scoop it up and stalk angrily around the testicle monolith, my eyes hunting for whomever this son of a bitch that dared to throw things at me was. I was going to tear him or her a whole new fucking asshole. 

The square was clear of douchebags. Well, aside from the bros wearing basketball jerseys and baseball caps in the middle of fucking Seattle. Nobody was running, nobody was staring in horror at their clumsy bullshit, nothing. De nada. Zip. 

I growl and keep heading back around the testicle monolith to grab my things, then (after one last sweeping glare to the square at large, which one passing man balked at) immediately back to the office. 

\--

This time, I don't bother with the pretence. The second I make it to the station, I immediately stalk over to the drawing to check out the new addition. 

Huh.

That's... 

Different.

A second figure has been added to the poster, sat at the opposite end of the bench. It's a short figure, wearing a long coat. A surprisingly fashionable-looking one, too. Well, as fashionable as something drawn in red board marker can be, I suppose. 

I pull out my own marker, intent on adding yet another hardship for this woman to face, but something Taylor said the night before stops me. That I might be, maybe possibly ever-so-slightly, just a little bit... lonely. 

My hand starts to move over the drawing, taking the image in my head and bringing it to life on this grimy station poster. I start with the woman, changing her hair and her clothes. Then, I move to the sky, adding a sun poking through the clouds (the ones I added the first time). Finally, I add a question. 

Well, a question mark.

I figure the implication will be enough. Putting 'what is your name?' and having an answer on the poster would be rather fucking incriminating, don't you think? Graffiti is still illegal in this state, after all.

I step back once again to admire my work, feeling something I hadn't felt in a long time.

Optimism. 

Maybe this would turn out well? Jesus, maybe it'd turn out great! Honestly, I had no fucking idea. Either way, I felt uplifted.

Nope, that's angina again.

Damnit. I think I need to go to a hospital. 

Wait, no! That is positivity! Yes!

Fuck, my train! 

\--

"Maaaax?" The voice echoes down the hallway, following as fast I'm running away from it. "Maaax?"

"Shitshitshitshit." I found myself mumbling to myself as I ran, past the lockers, past the classrooms, up the stairs at the end of the hall. My heart was beating in my ears as he followed. Of course he followed me, he always followed me! 

I try take a corner too fast, and I slam into a line of lockers. The slam echoes through the darkened halls.., and the voice laughs. It's a powerful, rolling laughter, and it comes from all around me. I feel like I'm in a tornado, powerless as it flows around me faster and faster and faster and the darkness draws in closer and closer and-

A face launches at me out of the shadow. A face with artfully styled brown hair, and cruel brown eyes framed with thick glasses. A face I recognised. 

Jefferson. 

Mark goddamned dog-ass motherfucking bitch-shit womble-fucking son-of-a-potato-salad Jefferson.

"Hello, Max."

I scream.

I wake up. 

I'm still screaming.

\--

I hurry down from the office when I hit my lunch break. I didn't have long and if I wanted to go to the place I wanted to go (which I did want to go to), I'd definitely have to hurry (which I was doing). It wasn't far, but the queues got ridiculous sometimes (AN2). 

And... yep. I was right. Maybe thirty people were crowded around the open side of Carlita's van, all yelling (or being yelled at. Carlita took no shit.). 

This wasn't going to be fun.

I walk over and let myself get swallowed into the queue. 

I quickly get overwhelmed by jabbing elbows and jostling shoulders. The feeling of being pressed in from all sides was... claustrophobic seems insufficient to describe it. I do my best to jab back, but I end up caught in the current, dragged and tossed and thrown about like a leaf on the wind and...

Oh, great. Now I'm anxious AND sad. 

Eventually though, I manage to make it to the front of the queue. Carlita flashes me her familiarly harried smile and asks me for my order. "You want the usual?"

I nod, and she quickly moves on to the next customer, her hands flying about as she sliced and diced and roasted. Carlita was a master, I always thought she should be running a restaurant somewhere, charging hundreds of dollars for every meal, or at the very least teaching people how to cook, but no. She was content with her truck and her crowds. So, I tried to stay as far from people as possible while I waited (which was hard. I was literally surrounded by the fuckers, so...) and just watched her work. 

She finished my order mercifully quickly, and I take it gratefully before skittering as fast as I could out of the crowd and heading over to the other side of the square. planting myself down on one of the daises surrounding the Pershing Sphere sculptures (AN3) and digging in. 

The food was, as always, delicious. I blotted out the memory of stress of the crowd and focused on eating. 

In fact, I was so engrossed in my meal that I never saw the large, grey pigeon coming in on a collision course for my lunch. 

The bastard. 

I shriek loudly and fling my arms (and my lunch) in the air as my entire visual field is suddenly filled with feathers and food.

Most of it ends up on me. I stand there for a moment, face contorted in mounting horror as my lunch drips down the back of my neck and feathers tickle my nose. 

The bird makes a quick getaway, and I follow suit. I have to get somewhere I can clean myself before this stuff dries on me! The office has a bathroom, I can wash up there. Hopefully before Mr Priestly gets back. There's no telling what he'll do if he sees me working like this. It'll probably be fatal though. 

Wowzers. Oh dog. Oh no. 

I dash off back to work, my messenger back trailing behind me like a streamer (or whatever those things rhythm gymnasts have are called?) and my hair fluttering in the wind despite it's short length. 

This freaking morning! 

\--

I make it out of work alive.

Somehow, I'd managed to clean up before Mr Priestly returned, and pulled on a new jumper (stolen from the lost property room. It was... fluffy.) to hide the water stains. Priestly barely spared me his usual annoyed glance before sequestering himself in his office again, leaving me to work through 'til around ten-ish. 

Once again, I thank Dog for overtime.

The lobby was as silent and security-free as always when I walked through, and the streets were just as silent. It was nice. All the noise and light was gone and it felt like I was the only person in the city. 

Considering my lunch trauma, it was a calm solitude I desperately needed. 

I stroll along to the station, feeling the air on my skin and the growling of my stomach. Jeez, I really am hungry. How did I not notice that until now? It's not like the work was all that riveting. 

Eh. Fuck it. I guess I can stop for a sandwich on my way back. 

I speed up a little, taking up the last stretch of sidewalk before the station in a few minutes. I had to admit, I was kinda excited. Partly for the sandwich (wowzers, I'm so freaking hungry) but mostly to find out what the next drawing was. This little... conversation, with someone I didn't even know, was... probably the most goddamn intimate relationship I'd had in five years.

Well. Now I'm nice and depressed about my life, let's see this picture! 

I wander over, letting my marker dance and twirl between my fingers as I take the entire poster in and... and... huh.

Nothing's changed. 

Great. Now I'm even more depressed. What a fucking day. Sure, I'm being flippant, but I genuinely feel sadder than I expected at the lack of anything drawn there. It's a familiar kind of sad: the sadness of absence. Whoever said that crap made the heart grow fonder clearly wasn't talking from the perspective of fucking reality. I just stare morosely at the poster, and really wonder where my life went so fucking wrong that doodling on a station poster with a fucking stranger became the highlight of my days. 

Oh yeah, Blackwell. How silly of me to forget. 

I sigh, getting ready to turn around, when a woman catches my eye. No, not like that, pervs. The Shine woman in the drawing! She has hair now! Well, she had hair before, but now she has new hair! My mystery art-buddy has drawn a pixie cut on the woman. And given her a very nice outfit. My artist partner is definitely a woman! A classy one, too. That's good to know. Could also be a really well-dressed drag queen, I guess. Either way, it'll be fun to find out. 

Because there's a question on the board too. 

Well, a question mark. But there's only one question a complete stranger could ask someone they've been art-flirting with for a whole week.

Who are you?

Or possibly if I'm a cat or dog person. If it's that, then the answer is neither. Lizards, man. They're so cool. 

Y'know, 'cause they're cold blooded? 

Heh. I'm hilarious. 

Actually, I'm a fan of big cats. Like the ones in the zoo? It was one of my two actual photography jobs I've had while I've been up here (before I gave up, a little voice in my head unhelpfully chimes up with). I had to take some pictures for a guidebook to the zoo, so I got to get up close and personal with a lot of the animals. The big cats were so... graceful. Like ballet dancers with knives for fingernails and teeth. 

Ahem.

Anyway. 

I ponder my answer. It's not like I can just write my name down. Graffiti is illegal in this state. 

Hmm.

Maybe I can just do what she did? 

I take my marker, and I finish off the person I drew. I add freckles to the face, and mousy brown hair. After a moment's hesitation, I add a messenger bag slung low over one shoulder and a pair of ratty old chucks laced tightly on the feet... and a camera, resting on the knees. I feel my face contorting into an unfamiliar shape at the sight of it. Hmph. I thought I'd forgotten how to do that. Not like I have much cause to smile, these days. Not since...

Ahem.

Anyway.

I cap the drawing off with a quirked grin on it's face, and move to put my pen away. But I catch sight of another interesting thing. Another... memory. A carved shape, cut deeply into a table, hiding nine simple characters within. 

M.C + C.P 4 EVA

I take the pen and fill out the question mark, completing the shape in my mind with it's mirror. A small something to mark to whoever the other woman is  
how... grateful I feel for this. How much affection I have for this little ritual dance of ours.

How much I hope to meet her soon.

I board my train feeling lighter than I had in a while. 

 

\--

AN1 - #Lampshading

AN2 - So, I was at a conference recently where my charity group was talking to a bunch of schoolkids from all over Manchester about what they wanted their schools to look like in the future. We're devolving from London Government, which means we get more control over what we spend our budget on, and we think it's important to talk to Young People about this shit. Children are the future, after all. Gotta let them lead the way. Anyway, one of the things they said was longer lunch breaks, because some of them only got 35 minutes for lunch and their queues for canteen hot food were often 20 minutes long. Got me thinking how that time-length varies in other places. Any of you who are still in schooling, how long do you guys normally get for Lunch breaks? 

They also said they hated Shakespeare, which made me sad. Man was a genius. One of the first people to truly write about the soul of humanity, rather than the soul of his time (#zeitgeist). He probably is everything critics say he is, sexist, imperialist, racist, colonialist, and so on, as most of the powerful men of his time were, but he also wrote about fundamental aspects of human character that haven't changed and probably never will. Everything from the sadness of King Lear to the manic insanity of MacBeth is something that we can understand because that kind of pain, that kind of torture of ambition and shame, it's all stuff we can understand. All the plays were written through the mechanism and viewpoints of these characters, rather than the story, and that (in my opinion, anyway) is what makes him great and lasting. Sure, none of us have ever committed murder to take a crown, or been betrayed by our children who lead armies against us, but those're stories of the past, the stories people in the 15 and 1600s could empathise with and understand because it's the kind of crap they knew and had to live with. But we have done things we're ashamed of and torture ourselves over. We have been betrayed by the people close to us and felt sad about it. We have been driven into relationship paranoia by paltry evidence. Black and white, rich and poor, then and now, we're all only human, after all. And Shakespeare saw that. His plays didn't really focus on what people did, but how people thought and processed and progressed through the process of thinking. 

It's why I don't think we can draw any conclusions about Shakespeare's views from his plays. That... balance, that examination taken entirely without judgement doesn't favour one side or the other. Take Shylock, for example, the Jew from Merchant of Venice. Judaism has been the punching bag of the world for literal millennia, and a lot of Merchant of Venice reflects that. He spends half the plot being abused for his ascribed qualities (think every stereotype about Judaism and it's probably in there) by Antonio and Bassanio, but he also gets the 'hath a Jew not eyes, if you prick us, do we not bleed' speech about his views on the shared humanity of Christians and Jews. I read a blog post once that said if Shakespeare had written 1984 (George Orwell/Eric Arthur Blair), we wouldn't be able to tell if he sided with Big Brother or against them. He'd've given both sides completely compelling arguments for their views, because that's how people work. We do what we do for what we think are the best of reasons. To give a more modern version, take the current US Government. While we might see what they're doing as reprehensible (which it almost inarguably is), I honestly believe that they think they're doing the right thing (and only that they think they're doing the right thing, just to be clear. Frankly, if the Hell they claim to believe in does exist, I think they're all on an express train there). They might be primarily motivated by underlying greed or misguided theocratic belief, but at a level they know they come to their decisions through a mix of logic, intuition, taught/learned ethics, and emotion. That's why the discussion is so hard. When you have two diametrically opposing viewpoints that are based on completely different ideologies, it's hard to bridge the gap between them. And Shakespeare, in my opinion, was perceptive and understanding and non-judgemental enough to do that incredibly well and across hundreds of years. We don't need to remove him from the curriculum, we need to change how he's taught. Take the characters off the page and take them to the stage. Seriously, people teaching Shakespeare by reading the manuscript is like teaching Film Studies by reading the shooting schedule. It's a play, it needs to be played.

AN3 - This name is semi-made up. Pershing Square in Los Angeles was where the music video was filmed, but the spheres in the video don't actually have a name so I used it as a reference. Max seems like the type to know the proper names of random sculptures that Victoria would just insult as testicle shaped monolith eyesores.


	5. Stormy Clouds Chase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter V: Stormy Clouds Chase (Victoria/Max/Victoria/Max) - Thursday  
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
> AN:  
> Hey there, Fan-fic-folks!
> 
> Apologies for the near-month delay. It's a long story and kind of pointless to tell, so I'm just going to leave it at the apology. Going to try to get actually on schedule though from now on. I'm thinking I'm going to go onto a one-chapter upload per week thing to get into the habit of writing to a weekly schedule then amp it back up to two (or hopefully more, as I'm getting many stories now and I wanna get some of these muthas moving) when I get the hang of that again.
> 
> This... was a hard one to write. I had one thing planned. Then I realised that thing didn't really work. Then I wrote a second thing. Realised that also didn't work, but for an entirely different reason. This is about the fifth iteration of this chapter I've written and frankly I'm beginning to hate this entire fic and the world it's set in, so I'm uploading before I just delete the whole thing in a fit of pique and call the whole thing off as a bad idea. Luckily for my hatred, this is the end of part/act I (A new planning thing I'm trying, tying the events of each story into the old three-act structure. It seems to be helping me keep events straight and have things in a more logical sequence than before.) so I'm going to be able to take a little time away from this fic before I go fully into the middle part where they actually deal with one another. Not too long, though. I actually enjoy writing this thing, when I'm not writing the same chapter five times over three weeks. Egad, me. Egad. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please review.
> 
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I was woken up by a loud, abrupt beeping sound. For a minute, in my sleepy state, I thought someone was trying to blow up my apartment.

No such luck.

Instead, it was my phone, beeping. Loudly. 

I cursed, even louder, and threw my pillow at it.

Bad decision. Somehow, it knocked over one of my bedside art pieces, a large, cone-shaped object designed by (a very famous sculptor) that landed in the perfect position to magnify the beeping in my direction. This made the fucking thing even louder.

Jesus Christ. 

With a resigned groan - because this is happening now whether I like it or not, apparently - I roll out of bed and stumble over the hot floor to my vanity where my phone sits charging overnight. Just as I reach out to pick it up... 

The damn fucking piece of shit beeping just fucking stops.

Goddamnit. 

I pick up the phone anyway, because I'm up and angry to know who the hell woke me up at, oh God, at 3:30am.

I blink in surprise, and every iota of my anger dissipates when I see Taylor's name on my screen. What did she want? Why was she calling this early (late for her)? I... something must've happened, right? Right?

I tap the callback button.

"Victoria! How'd it go? Did you tell her? Did you meet her? Was she cute?-" 

I'll save you the rest. Suffice to say my anger was well and truly back and she went for two or three more minutes before she noticed that I hadn't said a word since I picked up the phone and she had to finally take an actual breath. I wait a beat, just listening to her deep and mildly desperate breaths over the phone before saying simply and with intensely fake calm. "Hi Taylor. How are you?"

"How am-" She almost growls in frustration at my glibness. "How are you? Come on, Vic, I want deets!"

I continue my forced calm tone. "I'm good too, thank you for asking." 

Taylor butts in, whining in protest as I ignore her nosy and incredibly rapid questions. "Viiiic!"

I roll my hand across my face again, feeling my temples start to tingle. "Jesus Christ, Taylor. I haven't been anywhere near the poster yet. There won't be any details until I get to the station tomorrow. Have some fucking patience. Also, it's 3am."

Jesus, it's fucking 3am... 

She laughs. "Oooh. You're excited for it, huh? You only get that kind of snippy when you're trying to cover how much you want something."

Did I? Did I really? Well, that's just fucking... 

Calm, Victoria. Calm.

I take a few deep, attempting-to-be-calming breaths, watching my expression clear in the mirror on my vanity. Taylor just waits patiently. She's used to my... quirks, after all these years. When my breathing levels out, she simply waits, giving me the opening to apologise. 

I say nothing. 

After a few more seconds of silence, she tones her voice a little lower, adds a dash more refinement... and starts to do an impression. Of me. I wasn't impressed. "Oh, Taylor! I'm so thankful that you care about me enough to be concerned and take an interest in my life." 

She waits. The silence is expectant.

She's not going to let this go, is she?

I groan, and mutter obediently. "Thank you, Taylor." I don't bother with the rest. It's 3am, and there are still limits, damnit!

"You're welcome, Tori." She says, brightly. "Well then, since there's no details now, you're going to call me when you do find something out, okay? You need to try meet this girl, get her phone number, and actually make a friend in that city." She pauses, and I can tell by the... irritating quality to the silence that she's about to say something... sighable. "Or a date." 

There it is. 

"I don't need a friend, or a date, Taylor. I have work, and I have you. What else could I possibly need?" 

Her voice takes a sad turn, almost melancholy. Too damn melancholy for 2am without some form of psychoactive narcotic aid to make me forget about the burgeoning emotion-angina. "So much more, Vic. 'cause you're worth that. Even just taking a day off to actually relax for once would be better than what you have. You could go to a gallery, or see a fashion show, or get coffee with your mystery doodle-girl. Just something that'd help you slow down and actually enjoy your life for once." 

I... really want to do that. And Jesus, does that take a lot of effort to admit to myself. I really, really want to just throw off work and spend tomorrow actually doing something I want to do. 

But I can't. "Sorry, Tay. I can't. I've got that big project meeting with Bicameral today, and I have to get Pointy Hair fully briefed on the specifics before the idiot promises something that's not in the agreement." I sigh. "Again."

Idiot.

Taylor just groans. "But Victoria, it's your life. That's just a job. And a job that you absolutely hate, too."

I give the verbal equivalent of an unhurried shrug. It sounded something like "mmhgleyeh.". Really put those old Lovecraft books into a new perspective. Turns out all those intense-sounding cultists were just laid back stoners. 'Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn' was just "Arise, great Cthulhu, y'know, if you feel like it, dude."

Oh, right. Taylor. What was she saying? Oh yeah, just pointing out how much I hate my job. I mean, she was right, but... "It's still my job. And I can't afford to lose it. I wouldn't even be able to pay for the apartment."

"Well, then you could move over here and stay with me!" Taylor says brightly. "You know I'd love to see you awake and happy for longer than five minutes, and I do have a spare room going. Plus, the fashion world in New York is way better than in Seattle. I know you tried before, but that was just after college, if you tried again now I'm sure you'd be-"

"Taylor." I start, warningly. 

I start to continue, but I hesitate. I... Even ignoring my last... not success, how does one even begin to explain the tangled, stubborn mess of thoughts that I had after that? How much I didn't want to give up, after all the long hours and godawful meetings (Jesus, the meetings) and the endless hell that was paperwork. How I couldn't walk away from this job yet, not without leaving some sort of mark. 

"I..."

"You're a Chase."

There's a reason Taylor and I are still friends. She's far smarter than anyone, even I, give her credit for. "Yes. I am. I'm sorry, Taylor."

She chuckles. "That's okay. Well, it's not, but y'know..." We both go silent for a second, ruing my family and the complicated little net of stubbornness and reputation and pressure we were all swimming around in. "Now that's all settled and you're going to tell me the deets when you have some to tell, get some rest! Sleep is God, so go worship."

I roll my eyes at her concern, and feel another burst of angina in my chest. If only I could afford to go to a doctor for that. But alas for my health, there's a new sweater in Chesire Oaks that I've been wanting for a fortnight. And I don't think the Doctor has anything to treat 'actual Human emotion'-iosis. Not that I really mind, when it comes to Taylor.

Ew. I'm a terminal case. 

I open my mouth to respond with my own sign-off, but the bitch hung up before I could. I stare at the phone in shocked amusement before sliding it back onto my vanity and going back to bed.

I still had three hours of sleep I could get yet. 

Fucking 3am. 

\--

I hop off the tram but, instead of heading straight to work like I usually do, I stop at the platform. It takes a surprising amount of effort to break routine, and the little voice in my head that reminds me exactly what a Chase damn well does is screaming that I'm going to be late and Chases definitely don't ever do that. 

But I ignore it. 

I turn, I walk over to the poster, and I take a look. 

When I see what my doodle-partner has done, I just... stare. A few people give me dirty looks as they're forced to walk around me, but I pay them no mind. 

Because whoever this girl is, she's taken my question-mark and mirrored it in her own red pen. They... they've drawn a heart. Somehow, that one mark has made every muscle in my body relax with pure, piercing relief as I got an answer to a question I didn't even know I wanted to ask.

It's not just me. 

I head to work, feeling lighter than I have in a long time. And also thinking intently about what I was going to write on my way back. 

Or maybe I'd just wait. I could tell her in person.

Maybe not.

\--

I wake up screaming again. 

Wowzers, my throat hurts. 

\--

I lean back in my chair and feel like crying. I'd been sat here for... oh dog, for five hours straight and I was barely halfway done with the massive pile of paperwork that Mr Priestly had had dropped on my desk that morning. Apparently Mr Cossling had some CI or something that had a big story to break and I had to make sure the necessary memos and briefs were passed to everyone in the company with need-to-know, which apparently was almost everyone in the company. 

Like, why does the guy in the mailroom need to know about any of this stuff? It makes no fucking sense.

One of my legs twitches. 

I think I need to stand up. Isn't this a symptom of that flight thing? NRA? DR DRE? DVA? CBT? DVT! That one. I quickly hop to my feet and regret it just as quickly. All the blood suddenly starts rushing to my legs as my brain realises I'm using them again. I wobble dangerously over to the window, tilting it open and taking deep breaths in of all the freshest, smoggiest city air I can get. 

Ah, toxins. How I've missed you. 

I tried not to look down while I was getting my well-needed air. Heights and light-headedness really don't mix. I remember one time when I hadn't eaten all day and Chloe wanted to go up to the treehouse and-

Nope. Not going there. Not at work. 

Instead of dwelling on the past, I start staring into the windows of the building opposite. Do they really count as windows if the entire building is made of them, or are they just glass walls at that point? I chuckle as I watch the people scurry around, writing memos and handing out briefs or whatever. It's like my own depressing bureaucratic ant-farm. 

Man, I missed people watching. I used to do it all the time. I wonder why I stopped. 

Some guy a couple floors down looks up from his computer and glares. He raises a hand and- oh. Asshole. I raise a hand right back. 

That's why. 

The animals don't like it when you tap on the glass. Even if it is just with your eyes. 

That's a weird image. 

Still, fuck him. I keep watching. After staring at words on a page for this long, I need some human contact. Even if it is from a distance of several hundred feet. My eyes get drawn to a breakroom several floors down. Some tall, haughty blonde was arguing with a coffee machine.

The coffee machine appeared to be winning. 

I grin as she starts shaking it more violently. Aww. Eventually, she manages to corral that wild stallion and gets a cup of hot steaming coffee for her trouble. She takes a gulp and, though I can't see her face, I can see the wince of disgust in her entire body. 

Heh. Snobby, haughty blondes. Wowzers. I wonder what Victoria's doing these days. Probably off in New York or LA or something photographing fancy people with fancy clothes and fancy names for some magazine. 

Bitch.

I scoff as the woman whirls and stalk-prances out of the breakroom back into whatever office space was behind there. 

My attention quickly goes to a man in a hideous suit desperately trying to corral a dog in his office. There seems to be a woman banging on the door of his office, too. 

What the hell?

"Ahem." I whirl to find Mr Priestly standing in the door of his office giving me an arch look.

I slink back to my desk with a muttered apology.

Back to the paperwork, I guess. 

\--

Jesus Christ that man is an idiot. I can't believe I resisted the urge to wring his neck and tear those stupid hair-cones off the side of his idiot head and-

Deep breaths, Victoria. Deep breaths.

In.

Out. 

In.

"AAAAAAGH!"

My phone ringing jolts me out of my panic-coping-induced-calm state with a loud bing. I hear a faint muttering from the cubicles around me as my calm and dignified shrieking frees them from the burden of paperwork for a few seconds. Assholes. They should be thanking me.

I pull it up and answer without really thinking about it. "Victoria Cha-"

That's as far as I get. "Omigod Victoria are you okay I'm so glad you're not okay 

I think there was a question in there somewhere. 

"What's wrong? What happened?"

"What's wrong?" She asks, bitterly and disbelieving. "What's wrong?" She sounds a little crazy right now, and I'm slightly worried. This is starting to feel like the opening scene of one of those ridiculous nerd apocalypse movies. There aren't going to be zombies running around or anything? I don't think I could handle those. Imagine trying to find a decent jumper after the end of the world. "Those costumed lunatics running around your city blew up a building!"

Oh, okay. Not an apocalypse then. I run over what she said again. My mouth drops open. "They what?!"

"They blew up the... how do you not know this?" She sounds incredulous. 

"I've been working, Tay. And I haven't had enough coffee." God the breakroom coffee is awful. And the machine is acting up or something. "What was the building, anyway?"

"Uh... King Financials, I think."

Oh. That's on my train line. I could've... 

"That Meyer guy said there might be more attacks. Maybe you should stay at home for a few days?"

I snort. Meyer was this rich prick PMC owner who'd 'generously' been helping the police hunt for the Anarchists, back when they were a laughing stock and not actual fucking terrorists. He kept telling everyone how dangerous they were, and getting completely shut down for it. God, I bet he's milking this for all he can get. Asshole. But I guess he was right... and so is Taylor.

"I know we had this argument barely sixteen hours ago, but this time it's your actual life, Tori. You could've been killed!"

I sigh. "You're right, Taylor."

"You- I... what?"

"You're right."

A soft flumpfing sound came over the phone, like Taylor had just flopped down onto a chair in shock. "You've never said that to me before."

I blink. What? "Yes I have. Of course I have. Why wouldn't I?"

"Name one time."

Uhhh....

Oh! "That time I thought you were making a big deal over a stomachache when you said it was appendicitis. The Doctor told us you were right and I agreed with him."

She snorts. "No, you told me I was going to be alright. Not the same thing."

I fling one hand up in the air, letting it drop against my forehead. "Well, it's close enough, isn't it?"

She chuckles. "So you're going to take my advice?"

"Yes Taylor," I rub at my temples. "I'm going to take your advice and stay in tomorrow. I haven't got any important meetings on, anyway. We're still finalising the deal from this morning and-"

Taylor yawns. Loudly. 

I grin. Timezones.

"-and I really think that this can work if we just renegotiate the third clause, but taking into account clauses sixteen through thirty one I don't know if we'll be able to-"

Taylor snaps with another chuckle, this time wry as she realises exactly what I'm doing. "I get it, Vic. I woke you up and talked about emotional bullshit, so you're keeping me awake with business bullshit. Touche, nicely played, and I'll fucking get you back, I just..." She yawns again. "Need to sleep. Goodnight. Glad you're not dead."

"Me too, I guess. Night Taylor." 

She hangs up, having actually stayed on the line long enough for me to tell her goodbye. 

I mull over the news, feeling honestly surprised at the escalation. These guys were... well. Not really taken seriously. They were the comedy relief bit at the end of every news segment, starring in yet another story of failure. And now they've escalated to this? Jesus. 

I sigh. Well. I made a promise to Taylor, and I'm basically done for the day. I guess I can afford a Taxi, just this once. 

\--

"The number of deaths is as yet unconfirmed, but it seems that most of the building was cleared before the explosion occurred." 

Wowzers. The Anarchists did that? Really? I look around to see what everyone else is thinking about this unexpected development and swallow a chuckle as I realise the whole office is staring in shock at the screen, Priestly included. As the report ends, throwing it off to an on-the-ground interviewer for the pointless filler, Priestly turns to the lot of us and barks "Everyone go home. We're closing for the evening."

What the hell? He's letting us go early? Priestly? I've been working here for four years and that hasn't happened once. Also, I have shit that needs doing. I still haven't finished that damned pile of memos. 

When nobody moves, probably thinking the same things I am, he barks out again even louder. "Go! Don't make me ask again. And Maxine," Ew. "Call Cossling before you leave and tell him I want a meeting immediately."

I nod and resist the temptation to offer up a sloppy salute. "Yessir."

Apparently, I was the only person who actually thought about staying as, when Priestly disappeared back into his office, everyone immediately started chattering about what they were going to do with their free time. Not one of them questioned why it was happening, or what would happen to the work that needed doing, no. They just left.

Slackers.

But, orders are orders, no matter how much I hated the idea of going home for an entire day. So, I send out the email and, after a second of hesitation, take the rest of the stack of memos. 

\--

Oh shit, bad idea, bad idea! I desperately try to cover the stack of now heavily-dampened paper from the sudden onset rainstorm that came out of fucking nowhere while simultaneously trying to get my umbrella up without dropping either thing.

Sometimes, I really hate Seattle. 

I finally get it open and stumble-stagger over to the taxi-rank at the edge of our office park, lurching under the strain of my tiny body trying to balance the massive stack of papers. It's almost deserted, which is weird for six pm on a Thursday evening. There'd usually be at least a few taxis here waiting for whatever fares they could get from desperate business people.

So, I readjust my umbrella, daintily perch on the edge of a bench, and I settle in to wait. Lucky me, I'm not waiting long. A taxi pulls up about five minutes later, it's annoying yellowness being an annoyingly yellow beacon in the rainy evening. I scramble to my feet and scurry forward to get in, but a form moving far quicker than I was strides ahead of me and smoothly slides into the Taxi.

I see red. Well, what I see is yellow, but I am fucking pissed off. 

I storm over, slamming a hand in to stop her closing the door. "Hey, you just stole my-"

I stop in shock as a pair of familiar sharp eyes sat under a familiar perfect pixie cut glare up at me, then widen as they recognise me. There's a beat of silence as we stare at each other before Victoria fucking Chase slides over to the opposite seat and says simply "Want to share?" 

What.

The. 

Fuck. 

{END OF ACT I}


End file.
